Alone, Within Himself

A biographical essay of a fool!

ALONE, WITHIN HIMSELF

 

He walked about, totally, oblivious to the fiery emotions that lit his, precisely, straight path.  Never faltering in his pursuit of some unrealistic world, beyond.  He, brutally, shunned the affections of everyone who ever cared about him or for his happiness.

 

He turned around for comfort, when the road ended, completely and abruptly, wearily discovering that there was nothing, in the past, to return to and there was no future for a heartless fool.

 

The overgrown child began to sob, wildly, as damp and cold darkness crept into the skies, overhead, and he sat down in a puddle, of his own tears, to gaze at the faceless reflection.  Here melted a, once, sturdy man, whom had no fond memories to fuel his selfish dreams.  The ironic self-destruction had come to pass of someone who had precious time enough, only, for personal glory.  Personal glory means nothing with no one to share it or to know that it has, even, been achieved.  He had gone to the end straight from the beginning, without a single desire to explore the wisdom, growth, and love along the way.  It means nothing to have a mountain of gold, if there is no understanding or appreciation of its worth.

 

Staring, blindly, into the black tunnel bore deep inside himself, he, hopelessly, toiled to bring a thought to mind of something or someone passed by, in conceited haste.  If there had been anything or anyone, long ago, nothing could be the same, now.  When appreciation for devotion is not present, rejection causes one to be repelled and to locate a more feasible idol to adore.  He had no followers; neither, was he a follower, nor a leader. Just, a man who could sit alone, forever, or venture on, roughly, wishing only to be where he had been and could not go, again.

 

People can forgive, if a person, sincerely, needs that and is willing to give something more to the renewed relationship.  Pain fades to caution, to guide us from second mistakes.  Though we seldom forget a wrong, we dwell upon its lesson, only.   He had not truly lived, extensively enough, to realize these possibilities existed.  There, he sat imprisoning himself for crimes no longer on record, when there were people wondering about him and wanting, only, his honest apology and willingness to try a fresh start with them.  A man can not return to the past to repair it, but he can add a brighter today to the gloomy yesterdays, that preceded it.

 

Somehow, he felt that tomorrow was, just, the beginning to the punishment, that would haunt him, until his death.  Only God knows whether he ever said that he was sorry into the silent world, into which he had awakened.  The thought of, actually, attempting to find a good friend, where his terror raged, once, or the fear to continue on and never find what he could have had were more than he could swallow.  So, he swallow the pills, in his pocket, instead.

 

They found him lying in the rain, in a pool of diluted vomit, by a sign that read, "Dead End," halfway across the country.  He died a fugitive from himself.  Alone, within himself.

Author's Note

This is not one of my normal writings, so be kind, when reviewing it.

This is a very haunting essay for me, because the person whom it was written about, did die by his own hand. My writing, unintentionally, became a prediction of the future. I am left to wonder "why?!"